Page 61 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 16
Ryan
The Annual Team Charity Benefit for the Special Olympics in September marks the end of the intense preseason and the start of the Brawlers’ regular season schedule. Which means players who don’t make the cut are gone, though some of them go down to the minors and may come back up, depending on injuries. Lines are officially formed and though we still have our daytime meals at the practice facility together, we don’t stay for dinner. This is good since I haven’t been home to see the Gramps and the fam in a while.
Not that it should matter, but even though Chelsea took the job with the Brawlers, I haven’t seen her either. She works at the offices in the Garden and the team hasn’t been there to practice yet except for the preseason games because they’re still working on upgrading the piping to freeze the ice at a higher temperature. They’re using smaller pipes and twice as many of them for more even effective cooling. Or some shit. Gary might know or care. It’s not that I don’t care, but I’m focused on the team.
Sure I am. That’s why I’m pacing around circles in my living room waiting for the limo to take me to the benefit. It’s a black-tie gala at The State Room, the top floor of 60 State Street in Boston. Normally I look forward to it because a lot of the Special Olympics athletes attend and I’m always so fucking inspired by them. This year I can’t seem to keep my focus where it should be. My head is still wrapped up around Chelsea Wilde whenever I’m off ice.
Anticipation has me wound tight because I’ll see Chelsea at this benefit and, no matter how I cut it, no matter how much I tell myself it doesn’t matter because she’s a lost cause, I’m fucking excited to see her, looking forward to it like a kid ready to lace up his first pair of brand-new Tacks.
The doorman buzzes my condo, finally, to let me know the car is here and I go down to the garage because that’s the new protocol. No more getting picked up out front to make a splash for people on the street. I probably shouldn’t be taking a limo, but my dear agent doesn’t want to let go of that amenity and he’s my date tonight. That’s how fucked-up my life is right now.
Strangely, I don’t mind. In fact, I feel like a mountain of pressure is off my shoulders now that I’m not worried about the media. Well, that’s not exactly true, but I don’t need my picture taken with a hot chick every day and I’m not worried about choosing a girl to take home with me every other night—not that it was ever exactly a worry, more like a chore than fun though, for a while now.
Nope, no more concerns about that. All that so-called pressure gone. Now any anxiety I might feel, which admittedly is little, would be about Chelsea Wilde. Because in spite of my good sense and advice by anyone who has the nerve to speak up—Levi, Maggs and Ham being the only ones—to get her out of my head, I can’t do it. Haven’t even tried, really.
There’s one more person whose advice I want on the subject and I’m pretty sure what he’ll say. I plan to see him tomorrow for my first Sunday dinner with the fam in ages, and I plan to have a heart-to-heart. Because I trust that Gramps, more than anyone else, gets me and has my back, not a selfish bone in his body, no agenda or ulterior motives.
Don’t get me wrong, I trust Levi and Maggs and even the somewhat greedy bastard Ham Houdini Jett, but they all have an agenda. Levi is more concerned about keeping Maggs happy and Maggs is concerned about keeping Chelsea happy just as much as—maybe even more than—me. And, well, I’m Ham’s meal ticket and that’s his first priority, though not his only one, and I get that, don’t blame him for it.
So I’m going crazy keeping things in my head and whenever I’m not with the team or on the ice, Chelsea is there haunting me. How the hell can I have something with her? What will make her take a chance on me and what the fuck makes me think I can handle a relationship with anyone, let alone Chelsea Wilde, the most dangerous woman in the world to me?
We take a spot at the bar and order our drinks. People are still arriving. I keep my eye out for Chelsea. One way or another I’m going to see her tonight. Try to bridge the inexplicable gap between us.
“You’re quiet.” Ham says. I don’t respond, confirming his observation. “Let me guess,” He says, not bothering to hide his disgust. “You are plagued by Ms. Chelsea Wilde.”
“Fuck you.” My standard response to shit people say when I have no defense.
“Cheer up. This is for a good cause. You’ll get some great publicity. As long as you can keep your pants zipped and . . .”
And I tune him out.
After I drain my drink, my first and last of the night because I’m not much of a drinker—especially not during the season and that’s where we are—I excuse myself, not saying where I’m going. Let him think I’m going to the men’s room. Now that the crowd is filling out, I’ll talk to some of the Olympic athletes. And look for Chelsea.
Spotting one of my favorite people on the planet, a shot put thrower who happens to have Downs Syndrome, I head for him.
“Sam, how the hell are you?”
He grins, but no wider than I do as he clasps me in a powerful hug.
“Ryan. It’s you. I can’t believe you made it.”
“Wouldn’t miss it—you kidding?”
He laughs. He’s loud and enthusiastic and one of the most genuine people I know. But he’s attracted some attention, and even at this star-studded event, people’s heads turn. I try ushering him to a corner to catch up with him, but two forty-something women stop me.
“Ryan O’Rourke, right?”
“That’s right,” Sam says. “In the flesh. He’s one of my fans.” We all laugh at that.
“If you’ll excuse us,” I say to the two women. But they’re either hard of hearing or ignoring common decency or maybe they’ve had enough to drink to make them bold enough not to care.
“I saw thatSports Illustratedfeature of you,” Lady one says.
“You were inSports Illustrated?” Sam says. Shit.
Before I can respond, a very tall woman in a slinky little black dress shows up at our side.
